Chapter Text
Sure.
Of course, she'd known Ed was married. Everybody knew that. He had two young kids, as well. The photos were propped up like set dressings in his fancy office. A young, plain-looking wife with an equally bland little boy and little girl, all together in one of those department store looking photoshoots complete with posed smiles and awkward hand positions. It could have easily been a stock picture for all anybody knew. So, yeah, combined with that wedding band on his finger, it was no secret to anybody that he was married with children.
Nobody really cared, least of all Ed.
It really hadn't taken him much coaxing to get Carol's panties around her ankles in his office late one evening. It could be said, at that time in her life, she was actually even eager for it. There was just something about men like him that was undeniably attractive; something she saw in them that made her quiver a little, everywhere. More than attractive then: irresistible. She was so young and he was so charismatic, so magnetic. These men, they exuded power, and strength, and a complete disinterest in anybody else's pleasure but their own. They took whatever they wanted, when they wanted, how they wanted. It was beautiful, and deep down in a corner of her psyche that she wasn't even aware existed, part of Carol was jealous of it. She wanted it too. She wanted to touch that, to own it, to live it just the same and if she wasn't quite there herself, she'd damnwell suck it up any way she could manage.
And, yes, things with Ed did involve a lot of sucking. He was just lucky she had been so naive and eager to please.
A lot of people in the office had been positively buzzing about the Daytime Emmys this year and the sheer number of nominations ABC had received for their soaps. In less than 3 hours, a select gaggle of executives and talent would be in some majestic theater to swallow up more Emmys than they'd ever had before. A least that was the hope. Carol of course was not invited. She wasn't a writer, director, editor, actor, executive. She was just one of a larger team of administrative grunts who did all the real work, a glorified and slightly warped version of an executive assistant.
But the entire office had been invited to the afterparty at a swanky hotel with comped drinks all night long and a crowd of designer suits and dresses. It was her first real Hollywood party and despite the fact she'd be clad in a rented gown, borrowed shoes, and faux diamonds, she was ready to shine because if inspirational posters were to be believed: today was the first day of the rest of her new, exciting life.
Plus, she was screwing the boss.
That had to be worth something.
She tried not to wince when Ed tore a stitch on her Monique Lhuillier dress as he hiked it up around her hips in the handicapped washroom next door to the raging, celebratory party room. Hopefully the rental place wouldn't notice; hopefully it wouldn't tear more. Thrusting manically into her as if in some sort of rush, he breathlessly repeated to her all the awards they'd snagged during the ceremony and what it meant for projected advertising revenues. With a grunt it was all over and he gave her friendly pat on the shoulder as if she was some sort of teammate on a baseball team, unceremoniously stuffing himself back in his $4000 slacks. He didn't even say thank you, at the very least.
She tried not wince even more when Ed's gaze completely passed over her as he introduced her fellow co-workers to big wig friends of his at other networks and agencies. Maybe he just hadn't seen her. That must have been what happened, she repeatedly assured herself.
Instead, he actively ignored her for most of the night after that incident in the bathroom until he finally found somebody to introduce her to, someone he obviously felt was more on her amateurish level: his wife.
That was the first time she ever met Helen Moran, who would, in just a few months, revert back to her maiden surname, Basch. She certainly didn't look as young and fresh as the photos in Ed's office made it seem, but she wasn't particularly old either. In all honesty, Carol begrudgingly found her rather stunning in her dress that likely rivalled Carol's entire 3-month salary, and there was something knowing, shrewd and discerning, about her warm brown-eyed gaze. It made Carol only slightly uncomfortable despite the plastered on smiles and solid but not ungentle handshake. More likely, it was her own guilt that was the cause of her skin tingling and her pulse racing to panic attack levels.
Ed left them quickly, clearly unconcerned that Carol was going to leak any extramarital dalliances of his. It was pretty bold considering just an hour ago he had pumped her full of cum and left her to sort herself out in a dark toilet stall. After a few moments of pleasantries, Helen gestured at her.
“Well, you look great,” she said, and for the first time all evening, Carol felt herself blush, just a little. A few people had complimented her but they'd seemed perfunctory and insincere, like bad actors saying their expected lines. Meanwhile, Ed hadn't said anything about her appearance at all. He'd barely given her a twice-over before motioning with a thumb to the bathroom.
It was difficult to withhold the embarrassed (maybe even flattered) giggle and pushed down the overwhelming guilt about stealing this seemingly nice woman's husband. “Thanks. I mean, of course, so do you.” She wasn't lying either. There was something about her boss's wife that exuded a subtle danger, or... something else that Carol couldn't quite place.
“Oh, this old thing?” Helen smirked, her eyes sparkling and took a sip of her cocktail.
Carol wondered what was wrong with this woman. She seemed smart, nice, funny, gorgeous. There must be something really fucked up about her for Ed to need Carol the way he did. She was probably one of those frigid wives, one who wouldn't do anything fun in the bedroom, cold fish, completely unloving in private. Maybe she was a raging bitch prone to tantrums, like a secret psycho. A gold digger, even. Possibly completely superficial and air-headed, like one of the typical trophy wife bimbos these men often married. Maybe all of the above. Glancing at the half-empty glass in Helen's manicured hand, Carol suspected she was probably an alcoholic too. Why not? She seemed like she could totally be the type.
Yeah, there must definitely be something really, really fucking wrong with Helen.